


Children, Please

by essien



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: (although we must disregard a-you-know-whose final-act you-know-what), F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, accidentally 3x06-compliant, dismayfully 3x07-friendly right down to an irina pashmina, odds ain’t so great for episode 8 (thank goodness i can stop feeling paranoid), post 3x05, so i threw us a bonus passage at the end of chap 3 to celebrate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24404350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essien/pseuds/essien
Summary: Loose ends and family ties, fumbled with in the gaps between plot points by an ensemble cast of unreliable empaths.Mid-to-late Killing Eve Season 3, but make it Killing Eve Season Threeier.
Relationships: Bear & Eve Polastri & Jamie Hayward & Audrey & Carolyn Martens & Mo Jafari, Carolyn Martens & Geraldine, Carolyn Martens/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Geraldine/Eve Polastri, Pyotr & Bor'ka & Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Villanelle | Oksana Astankova & Konstantin Vasiliev & Irina Vasilieva
Kudos: 26





	1. And You Keep On Going

**Author's Note:**

> Hello kind people of the internet. I hope you enjoy terrible wordplay, ten or so perspectives on a single turbulent week, and re-imagining these harrowed dopes as much as I did. Thank you, & I'll catch you later
> 
> Oh, Note: I promise to make it fun (or at least very silly) but there are some heavy themes to this work. Take care, alright? x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “We need us,” Pyotr creaks, and starts to play a piano ballad with his fingers in Bor’ka’s hair.  
> “You need guardian, Bor’ka. It is investigation we need to wait for. And legal advice. Then paperwork. Passports. I’m sorry.”  
> The brain worms turn and stretch beneath Pyotr’s bittersweet solo. Bor’ka’s breathing slows. He tastes costume warmth spreading out into the cool air. He feels the crowd’s expectations.  
> “Do you think Oksana would wait–”  
> “Probably not–”  
> “– or Elton?”  
> “– but she is strong. Too strong, perhaps. Already died twice before you met her.” Pyotr’s fingers stop. “Did you say Elton?”
> 
> It is not so simple as “GO SEE ELTON”.

Pyotr kept papers in loft of barn. No passports.

They have no passports, because to get the passports, family needed visit big town who has right offices, and his mum did not want to do.

She always saying everything they need they have here in Grizmet. She would list them. It was a pretty short list. First time, he said: O.K.

Fyodor, his new step brother, sneered with girl voice from other side of lounge, too quiet for others to hear, but sound came hurtingly loud through Pyotr’s eyes: okaa ay. Fyodor tilted head, stiff like lumber, waiting for a weakness reaction. Pyotr decided he go look for everything he need in splinter of old bench borrowed from schoolyard. Right here in Grizmet.

### MAMA’S BOY

But few years later, when he asked step dad instead, who said, of course, his wife dreaming of staying only, of living this happy little life for rest of life, Pyotr said: he knows there is no needs for passports, he plan it as treat for mother. Into Pyotr’s eyes, this time, came only quiet and a strange borrowed sadness that both were getting bigger and bigger as Pyotr kept speaking and speaking: even if she not want to do yet they can get passports ready for others so is less work and less waiting to do when surprise is announced and they maybe can take her to get her own passport for birthday while they save up money for holiday because is many years before expiry of a new passport so she have plenty of time to decide where she wishes them all to go or if she want first to go sooner alone somewhere maybe like…

Cool hands and floppy words, like surface of old sofa, these steered Pyotr away from idea and away from step father’s beetroot crop before Pyotr find end of sentence.

So teenaged Pyotr made a bed, to dream from. He tucked everything around himself, outside of house, inside of Russia: birth extracts, album of photographs, view of the stars, bank books, change of clothes, school reports, a little more life every week…

One night after rerun of historic Elton John concert on television, whole family relaxed and poking fun that was all actually fun, Pyotr asked as joke why she not go party with queens of England, his glamorous mama. She stopped dancing, hanged up her boa around shoulders of his pouffe sized novelty half brother and put Pyotr’s face between her hands. Everything she needed, she stressed again, was in Grizmet. Her darling boy Pyotr the most of all.

He knew this, he imparted to an early Soviet era dresser the following morning, that is why he should have been born braver.

By time house explodes and triggers comprehensive inventory check, sure enough, her darling boys have it all: timber victims, family of photographs, all supporting documents they will need to apply for their passports and visas, even return of big sister who is alive and a pilot!

Who was alive and a pilot? He calls to his little brother, who has grown so big but looks small crouched swaying on the barn floor in the same violent rocking-chair impulse now Pyotr is starting to feel: “Bor’ka, where is Oksana?”

A few more swings in, Bor’ka splits, like grins.

“Luton? Gatwick?” Bor’ka spills out on floor like firewood. “Maybe she flies into Heathrow!?”

* * *

### SUPPLY RUN

He sits on the hood of the car. Toes the loose bumper. Chases the ticks from the engine’s cooling rubato. Out two three four fix six, In two three four five six. Out two three four five six. In.

Waiting for Pyotr to finishes whatever daydream he is in and get out of the car two three four five six. Hoping he will not have to go on ahead and do the haggling himself.

Oksana got away without speaking Russian.

Ever since Oksana got away. . .

Bor’ka flips through Pyotr’s old high school English dictionary.

Ever since Oksana got away with **not** speaking Russian. . .

Bor’ka gets ready to answer back to every kind of looks.

Ever since Oksana got away from Russia (again). . .

Bor’ka thinks they can make a run for it.

Got away. From it. Got away **with** it.

Bor’ka loses some of his balance, when he tries to imagines how much the three of them could get away with together. How much they still need to get away with apart.

Ever since Oksana got away (with it). . .

Bor’ka speaks English. Just English.

His brain is wriggling around inside his skull, failing to find a rest spot amongst the tenses and moods. It is same as the kids getting awaying. Huge. He cannot tell where the limits should be. English grammar is a byss.

“I do speak English,” he tells his wormy brain, “You’re wrong. Making me puke will not win the argument.”

He sighs heavily. Closes his eyes. Closes the book.

Hears group of adults clatter past into market. Taps the dictionary to his forehead, one, two, three, four... Stops, when he notices he is feeling more woozy even though his taps are so soft. Maybe one big harder hit will work better?

And then Pyotr’s arms are around him. Holding Bor’ka’s left side to Pyotr’s front side. Folding Bor’ka’s arms in. Wrapping the dictionary in the hug too.

“Do you think drummers feel the same as you?” Bor’ka asks. Tough, he means. No, like when... something is annoying you and you keep on going. Powerful.

Bor’ka imagines he is being cuddled by a pair of Elton John’s spectacles.

They make him bold. Ready. He realises now the byss is just an audience waiting in darkened stadium.

“Drummers?” Pyotr asks, confused, but Bor’ka has already moved on to bigger things.

“Let’s not wait for the funerals,” he says into his brother’s chest, “If people still want funerals, they can make them themselves. We already said goodbye.”

Pyotr is very silent. But his heart has a lot to say.

Bold Bor’ka dares to trust that he understands, “Mum doesn’t need us anymore.”

When powerful Pyotr goes even silenter, the thrill Bor’ka feels... He could engulf an arena, conduct the emotions of entire world like his hands stroke inside of every chest.

“None of them need anybody.”

“We need us,” Pyotr creaks, and starts to play a piano ballad with his fingers in Bor’ka’s hair. “You need guardian, Bor’ka. It is investigation we need to wait for. And legal advice. Then paperwork. Passports. I’m sorry.”

The brain worms turn and stretch beneath Pyotr’s bittersweet solo. Bor’ka’s breathing slows. He tastes costume warmth spreading out into the cool air. He feels the crowd’s expectations.

“Do you think Oksana would wait–”

“Probably not–”

“– or Elton?”

“– but she is strong. Too strong, perhaps. Already died twice before you met her.” Pyotr’s fingers stop. “Did you say Elton?”

“Yes, Elton. Who else?”

Pyotr unfolds his arms from Bor’ka and dictionary and refolds them across his own tummy. “Elton… I don’t know. I suppose maybe he done sometimes controversial things before people got used to. And they change minds and think good because what Elton did, so… It depend on the person. Oksana I think too have this talent, of–”

“Getting away with things! Yes,” agrees Bor’ka so strongly he slides off the car, “You know this track Funeral for a friend (love lies bleeding)?” No matter. “It is epic. Eleven minutes! And he pushes boundaries from very first seconds, to the _whole_ way through. Pure showmanship.”

“Sure?” Pyotr is not looking at him anymore. He is doing wave at some stallholder. “But what I meant is the sex with men.”

For the rest of shopping trip, the brothers hardly speak anything.

###  * RUN *


	2. Sotto Voce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > A less traditional pause. Then, Carolyn Martens takes Eve’s hands into her own and rests them gently on the table, without letting go. She even slips her the thumb. There it is, bobbing slowly across Eve’s knuckles. Both back and forth. The three women watch it with equal surprise.
> 
> Things are heating up in rural Russia and word has reached London. Carolyn attempts monumental feats of sensitivity. Geraldine is on the case.

### TOO CLOSE / TO  
SEA / LEVEL

Look, she might be so engrossed in her phone that she’s already forgotten to grope around for her keys the moment she starts trying to, but there is no way that Geraldine could be expected to, well, expect her mother to greet her at this hour.

“Eve. Glad you could make it.”

Certainly not like that.

“Er, Mum...”

“Mmyes?” she responds, “Why aren’t you already indoors? Flat? Elevated? Less conscious?”

It doesn’t sound judgemental, exactly. Nor surprised.

“ _Less_ conscious? Oh, I aspire to a plane of perennial mindfulness,” Geraldine allows herself a soft smirk, while her analysis whirs frenetically on underneath, “As you are aware.”

The tone of voice was classic Mum, essentially. It’s just that getting her own child’s name wrong comes off a little more delirious than usual. Geraldine feels her brow start to rise and lifts her head with it. Maybe Mum could benefit from...

But there an actual Eve in fact is, sat on a suitcase at the doorway, looking as caught off guard as Geraldine feels. Geraldine’s questioning expression enjoys a longer display than intended.

“Excuse the pun. Hello again, Eve.”

Eve gives Geraldine a funny look. “I’m not sure that’s much of a pu–”

Mum cuts her off, “I shouldn’t think so, no.” she says directly to the ghost of Geraldine’s eyebrow raise past and its unfinished insinuation.

There’s a strangled moan from Eve. “It is. Too early. For… It is just too. Early. Carolyn. I will be ploughing my zombie-ass way through to your kitchen in ten seconds, I will leave it to you to decide how in the way you will be standing at that moment. Good luck.”

Trusting those MI6 threat-assessment skills, Geraldine slips into Eve’s wake.

Eve’s suitcase catches on the threshold. They only narrowly avoid a full domino effect, a few times, in a few different directions, as she wrestles with it and refuses all help.

“Why ever would you imply…?” mutters Mum, sotto _extreeme-ely_ **VOCE!** , when she finally closes the front door behind them.

It takes... more resolve than Geraldine realised she had, not to ugly cry on the spot. To not point out that the Kenny situation is why, the countless omens of nervous collapse, their torn-up family, the toll, the tolls of all kinds, are more than enough to “imply...”. She feels their grief lap up around her ears.

“Oh, actually, while I think of it...” Mum stage murmurs on, disappearing upstairs.

Geraldine rolls her eyes hard enough to surface back to the civilised world and pull a seat out for Eve.

“Thanks.” A laugh bubbles hoarsely. “Your dynamic!” Eve mimes a series of sly silences.

“The satellite delay? Rather Cold War isn’t it? S’pose you can blame Mum for that.”

“And everything else.”

“Hey now, only I’m allowed to insult my mother that glibly.” Though it’s not like Kenny exercised the privilege when he had the opportunity, howls the monsoonal ocean in her gut. “Tea?”

“Coffee?” Eve asks apologetically, before making a tiny gasp, “No. Speed?”

“Oh dear,” Geraldine chuckles. The tide turns in and around her chest. She watches Eve, with a tender open-mindedness which she hopes comes across.

“I’m sorry… Last night, I had to decide what to do about my estranged husband’s…”

Delicately, Eves swallows a memory. But, Geraldine senses, it eddies around her throat chakra, in a pool of others.

“I feel like a hurricane,” Eve tries, “Things are a mess, right now. I’m sorry. I’ve been… rude. Shall we start the morning over?”

“It’s OK. To be honest, I assumed this was more or less your usual, so...”

“Great.” Disappointment.

“When in mourning, anyway.”

“Found it,” Mum returns from upstairs with far too few preliminary footfalls, “Geraldine, I’d best warn you about something, I’m afraid. Have a look at this photo.”

The subject is... Handsome, Geraldine’s brain blurts out, in a youthful way. No further comment. She takes refuge in the blessed candid clarity of the facial expression before her. No secrets in this snapshot.

“Now, she may go by Villanelle, however she could turn up as anything. I expect that you would rather not get too... involved with this woman.” _Wrong!_ “If and when she saunters into your life, do try and maintain a safe distance, won’t you.”

“Are we expecting her?” says Eve, sounding almost… hopeful? Probably a fairly garden variety killer, then, rather than some quadruple agent type. Eve’s whole being screams true crime fanatic. It’s not like this woman would perk up at yet more smug banter. Unless, maybe she is drawn to a certain frisson with other…?

Geraldine’s gaze drifts up from the photograph to check what Eve’s own might be doing.

Calm surface rippling with powerful undercurrents, Eve catches her scrutinising her. Geraldine’s gaydar is in need of servicing, her bighthouse unmanned. This she cannot pick.

“Expecting _Villanelle_? Not at all, no.” Mum _clearly_ just passed up on some more invested remark and, actually, Geraldine is almost relieved to see her tamp it down a second time... Whatever it was. Mum shifts her entire posture in a firm change of subject. “Now. Eve. Have you heard about your –”

Geraldine squirms under her mother’s sudden, protracted and utterly unreadable gaze.

“My?” Eve prompts.

“Ex-girlfriend?”

Eve freezes mid-consonant. She lets out the longest breath. “How do you mean?”

“The news about her family.”

“Uh, dead?” Eve offers, with that specific, self-aware levity of a middle-aged divorcee on a date who’s making a reference that went stale around the turn of the millennium.

“Ah, no.” A concessional tilt. “Not entirely. And they, along with the FSB, who find themselves with reason to care all of a sudden, seem to have found out that neither was she.”

Eve makes a strange fricative hiss. And again, freezes. “Who’s left?”

The customary pause. “Two brothers. That we’re aware of. The mother is recently deceased – house fire. Assorted fathers unaccounted for, at least as far as _our_ intel’s concerned.”

A less traditional pause. Then, Carolyn Martens takes Eve’s hands into her own and rests them gently on the table, without letting go. She even slips her the thumb. There it is, bobbing slowly across Eve’s knuckles. Both back _and_ forth. The three women watch it with equal surprise.

“Fact is, Eve, we aren’t certain,” Mum falters, “Who all the victims… are. Or how many there are. The local police’s grasp on the bigger picture is less than...” She lets go of Eve’s hands and, stiltedly, forms two very strange... fists? The fingers don’t curl in. Instead they kind of... palpate the palm. The tic is achingly close to relatable. “The brothers have claimed that their sister was staying at the house over the weekend... The night of the fire.”

“Wait, their sister, as in…” Eve shrugs on a detective’s air. “How many siblings are we talking, in... _her_ family?”

Poor Eve is dealt an entirely unreassuring look, and seems to draw her own conclusions.

Geraldine scoots off for a moment, to pop the kettle on. She catches her mother’s eye, who nods her thanks.

Time to go and pet Martin about everything. Geraldine presses softly between Eve’s shoulder blades on the way out. A tumble of curls brushes into her forearm in response. They complement the crests of the waves so elegantly, that Geri will feel them for days.

He only has time to subject her to two relaxed dog farts. She’s barely switched off, herself, but so spent, so tired, so exhausted, so wrung out, that the first long gongs of this meditation track are already obliterating what little remains of her. The deep sea and deep vibrations feed into one another at an overwhelming rate. She hopes Martin is a strong paddler. He scoots out from under her fingers, just as the tears spill.

Her bloody mum’s poked her head in, hasn’t she?

“I just wanted to reassure you that Eve and I are not having an affair.”

Ohhh her god.

“Nor an... anything more serious.”

Shame. The extra parental figure might come in useful. “I really don’t care, Mum.” Wouldn’t mind a kindred spirit joining her for breakfast.

There is a slight rustle of pyjama on dog. “Oh?”

“You do you. You do your protégé, or whoever.” Your surrogate emotional morass of a child.

Wouldn’t mind a real, honest conversation. Not her mother’s...

“I wouldn’t dare bring a lover round at the moment, anyway.”

...idea of honesty.

“It truly pongs in here. That music of yours must be doing him good.”

Geri squelches her eyes open. “Oh, Mum.”

Martin is soaking up tender caresses that don’t seem to be just for him. Mum’s kneeling close, all bright-eyed.

At least she’s trying.

And _that_ one is a solid pun. Watertight.

* * *

### TOO FAR / FROM  
ANY WHERE

It had becamed obvious, either too slowly or too quickly:

Villagers’ opinion was nice open shutter who no-one thought to fasten securely, of window. Not quite door. Doorway does not make so much suspicion if someone found to have tried to leave through it, as window.

Any day, people might stop seeing sad sons in shock and start seeing suspects. What had Nadege called him? “Weird arsehole”? She was the one to tell Pyotr about Oksana’s second death, that it is said had occurred several years ago, as a prisoner. Police had said about it to Nadege, later on first day of their visit, questioning locals. In fact, Pyotr got impression police faced with not very much answering. On whole, Grizmet won more of knowledge. Place full with weird arseholes. What had keeped Pyotr and Bor’ka so far safe from criminal suspicion, and made him weirdest arsehole, maybe was his, how do you put it into English, his glasnost?

Until, too slow, in his shock, he realised that others might see Oksana had motives, to cause gas leak deliberately.

And, tooer slow, he realised that others might see that brothers could share them.

The shutter could slam closed, intoprisoning Pyotr and trapping Bor’ka, for ever.

It must be more like “glas _not_ ”. Ha.

They won’t get home from market.

Because he bought too much and, chased by a sudden fear of arrest, too fast.

They loaded down the car, and turned not back towards their village, but north, into their own long shadow.

Too quickly, because Pyotr cannot run a sawmill out of a getaway car. Too quickly, because Pyotr has not learned how to do bribes yet. Too quickly, because he forgot to dump his fear of the alternatives: both for income and outcome. There is no time any more.

Too quickly, it was night; too quickly, another day. Too quickly, Bor’ka’s Elton Fund envelope is getting thinned with petrol and hungry helping hands along the way. Too quickly, hundreds, and hundreds of kilometres are travelled.

Yet, too slow it would be to take those kilometres back. In the gust of their leaving, the window has been disturbed. It will snap shut behind them. There will be no going home innocent.

He takes the next corner, and road smoothness improves. This new hum of tires, like finest quality machine, boosts his excitement.

Pyotr reaches over the console to nudge his brother. Bor’ka cheers, at the enormous wayfinding sign ahead of them.

“So,” Pyotr starts, once he has adjusted to strange new highway conditions. They review their afternoon plan.


	3. Extremely Conspicuous Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “I mean, don’t get me wrong, work in a kitchen is obviously demanding in a different way, but it’s allowed me clear distinction between my personal life and my job. Or it had.”  
> “What, was she your boss? Another colleague? A customer?”  
>  _Consumer_ , Eve nearly says, and shakes her head as much to clear it as to reply. “She was an artist. An actress. She made... theater. Really... audacious... sharp... funny...”  
> Villanelle’s incomparable crime scenes could send her breathless even now.
> 
> Eve, Bor'ka, Pyotr and Oksana all open up... in their own macabre ways.

The social enterprise café is well off the high street, facing onto the weary shins of a brutalist tower. It’s a monochrome day. There’s not a lot going on outside the window.

Or on the warm, star anise interior, for that matter. After a minute’s slosh and clatter, carrying over the few other murmuring patrons, first steaming chai, then posh leather jacket re-infiltrate her own stale-cigarette fug.

### JUST A  
FRIENDLY  
CHAT

“So,” continues Geraldine, setting yet another two giant mugs between them and the glass, “Tell me about this girlfriend of yours. What was her name?”

“Oh. Uh. Billie.” Dammit. Way to pick a traceable alias, Polastri.

“Billie?” She seems sceptical. “Like Billie Piper?”

“More, um, Ee..leash? Eyelash?” Ei..something...

Geraldine picks a clumsy path through her next question, as though speaking in gum boots, “Is that that grim teenager with the swagger?”

Well that is just uncomfortably accurate. Eve gives a squeaky, “Enh.”

“Oh,” Geraldine breathes, “Was this back in the States?”

Eve licks her lips. She hides her face behind a leisurely slug of tea. She allows an extra moment to choose where to set down the mug. Eve is perfectly matter-of-fact by the time she says, “No.”

“Oh right? Sorry, I just assumed you did uni there. As well as school, or… Your accent.”

It’s uncomfortable to sit so close to someone who is being so awkward, but Eve stares even harder into the bleak streetscape, to block out the distraction. Kind of like meditation, she kids herself casually. Her date would appreciate that.

Not a real date. A shaving time off of the portion of her wait spent trapped at the airport terminal, _yeah Luton’s a drag, if you’ve got time before you have to head off, would you like to join me for a coffee date_ date.

“Our, um, relationship is fairly recent. And European. She’s this phenomenal craftswoman. It’s been quite the career. We met through work, actually.” Eve remembers that Geraldine is well aware of Eve’s profession. Shit. “Did you know I’ve been with a restaurant in New Malden the last couple months? You’d be surprised all the different people who come through.”

Geraldine sips her own drink thoughtfully, compelling Eve to continue.

“Intelligence is really more of a side gig, at the moment. If it weren’t for Kenny, you know, I’d have been content staying out.

“It’s like… Pathetic as it might sound, I am genuinely appreciating the chance to reconnect with Korean cuisine. And letting the language back into my awareness.” Through the sheer power of sentiment, Eve can ignore her snacky hauls from the east Asian grocer and the sometimes insufferable prattle which dominated since her retreat. “I don’t know if it’s ever been this much of a constant in my everyday experience. Then there’s the slower pace, the time to myself.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, work in a kitchen is obviously demanding in a different way, but it’s allowed me clear distinction between my personal life and my job. Or it had.”

“What, was she your boss? Another colleague? A customer?”

 _Consumer_ , Eve nearly says, and shakes her head as much to clear it as to reply. “She was an artist. An actress. She made… theater. Really… audacious… sharp… funny...”

Villanelle’s incomparable crime scenes could send her breathless even now. _Installation pieces_ , Eve does not lie, lest further reflection empties her lungs altogether, or Geraldine’s interest gets too piquey to fib into submission.

“In person, though? She was a real jerk.” Eve shrugs affably, suddenly re-engaged in the present, bounding into an eye-contact that borders on the flirtatious, “So, you know. It was back to the chopping board.”

“You know, I really wouldn’t have picked you for a cook. Or a dater of Billies. You are full of surprises, Eve.”

A bashful smile seems appropriate here. The chuckle she gets in return is awfully endearing.

“And perhaps the most transparent liar I have ever met. It’s refreshing. Please go on?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well.. I’d say not objectively transparent. Far too elegant for that. But I get it, Eve,” says Geraldine kindly, “She came before, didn’t she? Before you and your husband chose different paths.”

 _Yeah, she came first!_ a Villanelle begins crowing. Let loose in Eve’s head by all the praise, the attention-whore tries to seize her guts and throat and skull for a megaphone. Hits like a hunk of lemon rind to the gullet.

“Also, can I just say? I feel you, on the Korean immersion. A little background Russian always soothes my inner child, somehow.”

Eve’s heroic muscles are still working back a sob and it’s pulling on her chest injury. “What?”

“I realise it’s not the same, given there’s no ancestral link –”

“No. It’s not. Don’t presume to know me, Geraldine.”

The lady’s contrite, yet intense. “I’d like to. I’d like for us to get to know each other well. But only if it’s what you would like, too.”

That’s what it is: She’s _nice_. Eve has been so low on _nice_. “Sure. Tell me about the sleeping arrangements at your mom’s. You have your own room? Or does someone have to share with a ghost?”

* * *

### SAFE HOUSE,  
SUSSEX

Bor’ka wakes from night terror, muttering in their mother’s tongue. Pushing his hand into top of his face.

It is only half four in afternoon, but the night will have stretched all the way along Russia, and the brothers are soooo tii rrr ed. Still, the ghosts of aeroplanes and the traffic on ground and the bombshells of past few days have meant Pyotr has not slept yet. He has been not reading stack of papers and forms, but trying. Pyotr puts down clipboard.

The Russian namecalling crawls inside same way as familiar wood parasite. He feel like tree, in the summer, who has leaves all fall off at same time. Sick. Dying.

### EXPOSED

There is poison in him.

Parents’ hissed kitchen seminars, long ago, spoke truth.

Like is darkness in sister.

All it took was leaving countryside. All it took was losing them. Forgetting Dad. Discarding Mum’s and Grigoriy’s and Fyodor’s and Yula’s memory. Abandoning Chernukha the Mumu, and Pampushka and Dama, and Masyanya and Krasa and miracle Solya, to whoever greedy neighbour herd them away first, if they don’t die from neglect. All for indulging stupid childish fantasy.

This is what choosing strength gets you? He possess only weakness and fury and foreign government office supplies.

He grips pen so tightly, his nails make furrows to grow something new in.

He snaps clip of board: CRACK! Can he see it as weapon?

He shoves it into top of seat back, who sags too soon to be satisfying. He breathes out nose and strides over room, mostly mattress, to drops dead tree self to his knees, beside balled up brother.

He snaps, “Boris!” He grips stunned boy above shoulders. Not so tight. All tension he caches in elbows, for moment.

Bor’ka flails like unclamped wood under handsaw, kicking Pyotr’s violent compulsion to floor, as fast as it rose: No, Pyotr, settle. He is more frightened than you.

Being in gloomy corner on floor will not be helping him.

At gesture from Pyotr, they tramp back along mattress. They sidle onto sofa, high up, on opposite arms.

Neither dares to move closer any part of his body.

“What is hurting you?” whispers Pyotr, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“You know already.” Talking makes Bor’ka start shivering. “You have not forgotten how to understand Russian so quickly.”

“No.” Pyotr very softly slaps his hand onto the papers, on seat back. “But, you know, my brother does not speak Russian. It is on his rider.” Pyotr taps a finger smartly against clipboard. “So, there has been nothing to hear. Nothing, until us talking, right this moment.”

For next few seconds this stays an extremely conspicuous lie, because Bor’ka says nothing, unless quiet “hyu, hyuu” crying sound counts, and now nobody talking, so Pyotr pretends to be brave, before the guilt can destroy him, and eliminate the option entirely.

“You know why this type of place is called ‘safe house’?”

Next weak puff sounds like, “Why?”

“Because that is what it is.”

Bor’ka makes face like cartoon, which he turn to look around their gross little room. It is worse even than the dumps they were visiting, hoping to trade car and contents for new identities and rail pass, last night, when nice British spy intercepted them on journey toward Belarus.

“Okay, not so much of a house. Small flat. Actually, I am not sure what is difference from flat and apartment. Do you think that this would be an apartment?”

“That lady from secret service said it was ‘technically a safe shoebox.’”

“Let’s go with ‘safe shoebox’, then. But like I was going to explain for you,” Pyotr says in his fanciest English accent, “The important part is ‘safe’.

“Not only safety in our bodies. We have plenty of safety to share also to our feelings.”

Bor’ka wipes sleeve on face, stops part way and presses it hard over eyes.

“It is O.K. to be scared. Scared is not a bad feeling,” Pyotr proposes, “Because feelings is positive thing. But this still is stressful, isn’t it? Can you do me favour for help me do less stress?”

The sleeve stays in place, although pressure goes less. Head behind nods.

“Thank you. Then, let’s decide: If I will try to accept how you ever feel, about anything. And you will try to accept how I ever feel, about anything. Even if our feelings disagree between theirselves. Is this O.K?”

“O.K.”

“Good.” Pyotr nods away some of tension, with sigh. “O.K.”

Bor’ka uncovers face to show is solemn. “Promise?”

“Is promise, Bor’ka.”

The seats between their feets are suddenly fascinating.

After while, a sigh.

After nother while, “I dreamed I was a house. One of the thin English houses in a long row. She burned me down,” Bor’ka mumbles, “When she saw who I’d let come to visit. The whole street caught on fire, because of me.”

Nothing can hurts as much as to see Bor’ka fearing his own brother and sister.

“It was not so real like it seemed,” Pyotr says. He bounce his feet into cushion. “Safe house, remember?”

Bor’ka bounces his end of sofa in return. “Did you notice those people? On our way through Brighton this morning?

“The women kissing? The men who held hands?”

Did he.

“Yes,” Pyotr gulps.

“Remember in the cornershop? The boy who did the selling for our winness protectors? Remember his smile at me?”

“I did not see. Sorry. Why?”

“He was visitor in dream.”

Oh.

Oh.

“I have been wondering how it feels,” Bor’ka says, “Imagining, what if he kisses me.”

“O.K.” Pyotr states. “I promise, you are O.K. People will not actually hurt you, here, for thinking this way.”

“But it’s embarrassing!” Bor’ka says, “If Oksana finds out, she will never think that I am cool. I’m screwed.”

“Then, we both are.”

Bor’ka makes big gasp. “You worry if you would like kissing boys, too?”

Pyotr grimaces softly. “We can both be black sheep of family. And if Oksana does not approve, I will punch her in face. Won’t solve anything, but might make feel better.”

“Pyotr! Don’t.”

“She owes me. Besides, she will be fine, she is tough.” He visualizes a reaction. “Punch might even impress her.”

“But she is a murderer. You do not punch these people. Or they murder.”

“No, we know now she is ‘assassin’. And, O.K,” Pyotr shrugs, “Assassins still murder either way. But mostly like, political targets. Not the people who you love.”

This was wrong thing to say. Pyotr regrets immediately.

A brawl of emotions cross Bor’ka’s face.

* * *

### SSASSIN

It held surprisingly well. Still, the final wad of gaffa tape comes off a tacky, bloody mess.

Yesterday and today have been a terribly long week –

  * An exhausting day hopping cabs, coaches and lower key trains, blending a way in through Serbia, Croatia and Slovenia like a true Balkan stylist, who definitely hadn’t fried any damp public figures recently, if even ever;

  * A stubborn night’s detour from Ljubljana, in a sleeping compartment booked free of anyone who might mention Italy, thanks very much, let’s not discuss it;

  * A truly exhilarating morning’s stowing away on an impulse, from Zürich Hauptbahnhof, and spewing at the view whipping around the windows of the TGV (and also maybe the effects of the stab wound, who can say);

  * Half an hour’s horror at the Gare de Lyon, spent remembering about that other stabbing one time;

  * Before another six and a half nauseous hours of the exact same mistake à Grande Vitesse, back south to Barcelona;

  * And a less than triumphant walk ““““home””””.




Okay, she will admit; today, this ghastly long decade, they made a perfectly matched team, herself and her adhesive Romanian sidekick. She is also a tacky, bloody mess.

She flings the pair of them against her opulent bathtub.

The tackiness – fault of last century’s outfit for the Timişoara morning television gig – can be dealt with in a minute. The towels, the tweezers and nylon filament are ready to go.

So first, to the bloody mess –

  * Oksana cries,

  * and she cries,

  * and she cries,





	4. Play Executors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “Jesus, could they not have spared the kitchenette?” he’s lamenting as she wafts over, “Water damage on top of everything else! Bloody hell, why didn’t you call me?”  
> “Took the phones, didn’t they.”  
> There’s one spaghettied over the carpet between them. He gestures at it.  
> “Didn’t want to interfere with a crime scene?” she deadpans.
> 
> Irina is settling into a new identity, in detention. Villanelle must tackle hard truths and admin. Jamie has so much to lose. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! So much formatting drudgery went into this one. Italics... never again.

The first night, it was convenient. He’d loped off early as well, to make pickup. Jamie had his kids to himself. And vice versa. There was no other grubby knobhead he needed to shuffle out of the bunk, to he didn’t want to think where. (Talk about choices). Just the usual three ratbags, crashed out on the floor in front of the telly, a bundle of duvets and crumbs. No awkward stories to make it back to their mum. Cheeky, for a school night, but no real harm done. Only the one coffee table bruise. And that’d been his leg, not one of theirs. Thank fuck. No jeopardising that precarious trust he’d worked so hard to build.

The night went well.

Wednesday was pretty peaceful. Nice contactless handover, by way of another day’s state education. The ex’d be too shattered from her own long night to question anyone else getting a bit ratty by evening. Everyone was in a good mood at the school gate. Got a flirt in with Ms. Rai. And her phone number. Office several degrees chiller in the absence of Eve and her frazzling. So few other contacts answering his calls (not even people like Bear, there, in the flesh), he elected to savour it, take a break from the chasing. Nice little in situ holiday. Picked up a new grape vape at lunch. (Not bad, actually). Bashed out a stellar editorial on community activism amid the ongoing cladding fiasco. Powered through a load of other bits and bobs as if in a trance. Awoke accomplished.

The fear bloomed after tea on that second night. Cryptic email from one of the longer-serving freelancers came through. And Eve hadn’t, still. This time round, the flat was empty of distractions. What was this tidy display home? When did those two get so good at cleaning up after themselves, without being asked? And Dad’s self? And (oh-oh) Eve’s? (What had they noticed?) Jamie tried, but there simply wasn’t the square meterage to drag out the hoovering for all that long. A vicious fatigue hit him, unexplained as it was sudden.

Despite this, his sleep was rubbish. And after about 5 there was no getting back to it.

So Jamie turns up early to Shadbourne House.

He’s semi-surprised to find Audrey there, already. She’s managing to combine “pacing” and “moping” right opposite the lifts on _Bitter Pill_ ’s level, but barely clocks his arrival. (Clunking rollers and everything).

He is, on the other hand, gobsmacked to find their workspaces in complete disarray.

### OFFICE BLOCK*ED*

“Jesus, could they not have spared the kitchenette?” he’s lamenting as she wafts over, “Water damage on top of everything else! Bloody hell, why didn’t you call me?”

“Took the phones, didn’t they.”

There’s one spaghettied over the carpet between them. He gestures at it.

“Didn’t want to interfere with a crime scene?” she deadpans.

“You just plug it back in.”

“Fine. I wasn’t sure how. I’ve never had the courage to ask about those sorts of things.”

He can’t believe this. She seems to believe that he should. He treats himself to a sigh of relief, because at least he had kids too old for them to grow up into nightmare Late Millennials.

She takes it sarcastically. “What? You’re all whizzes. It’s embarrassing. Somehow, the right moment never came up during the raid, either.”

There’s still time. If he plays his cards right, his youngest might even learn how to tune a radio.

“Anyway, I’m pretty sure they nicked my iPhone. Which is none too pleasing.”

“Whereas I am euphoric over all this. You know there’s a telephone box just down the road?”

“Yeah, no, that’s a street library now.”

Aud brings him up to speed (on the gentrification creeping up on them and all about how GCHQ already have). Kenny’s sister turns up half-way through. She doesn’t know where Eve’s got to either. That’s why she came here. Reckons her mum might know, but can’t get a straight answer. Suspects Moscow. Something about “intimate liaisons” with a Russian. Something else about secret uncles? Uncle-ar, unclear. He’s in shock, he realises. He sends Audrey home. She and their visitor trot off to hunt Eckhart Tolle in the dead red booth.

Jamie stands around, blank, for another quarter of an hour, before new arrivals shove him back into feeling (he doesn’t like it). Eve and Bear. He wishes they hadn’t. Not to worry; they’ve vanished again almost before he knows it (Eve to the north, Bear his own little world).

* * *

It would not be smart to visit Konstantin’s place.

It would be a bad idea to prepare a breakfast there. It would be equally bad to abandon it, when the pantry door makes a creak to rival his laugh, just to devour his wool, smog, cool stress-sweat, gift-box toiletries, _Konstantin_ smell, that seizes the hunger she had assigned to waffles with ice-cream, and deepens it all for itself.

It is not safe to sprawl on his bed and replay conversations at his satisfyingly high ceiling – to have space to – what’s that word – dwell. _Dwell_...

...dwell well, what do we have here?

It is not wise to roll off and search through his drawers.

It is a precarious choice, to trace his last private footsteps.

To cycle through different boots on a mental paper doll, until it achieves a look that would have substantially improved his quality of life. To debate whether to have a pair sent to his hospital bed or to Moscow, and almost try both.

It is not safe to progress as she supposes that people who play executors or nest of gin or whatever _do_. To methodically pick through his world at her own suddenly standstill sense of a pace. As unsafe as it is bold to loose track of her body in his disappointingly average shower and all the things it could touch outside of his consistently inconsistent shower if only she could bring herself to want to be anywhere other than his increasingly reassuringly everything shower stall, anymore. Or his coat.

But it would be stupider to book a hotel in a city she has so much unfinished business in, with The Twelve already onto her. And a girl’s got to start somewhere.

Actually – excellent: what a find. She will buy a coat of her own with his medicine-cabinet cash. On the way, she will make some calls. Set up some meetings. Shut down some others. Yes.

Here is the thing that she is realising, about found family – specifically about finding it on the way out of her line of work. For the certified psychopath in this equation, she is a little put out by how scarcely anyone cares.

For example, her conversation with Carolyn.

“Yes?” Carolyn bristles. “Oh: you.” In the background, she maintains a parallel conversation about some jeopardised safe house; foreground: “I see.” She orchestrates a coup in Macedonia. “If necessary.” She runs a disapproving finger along a dusty counter-top.

“Bring them here?” says a small elf that works for her. “What, Diane would hardly expect you to go under her nose again.”

“Please, Mo. Since the day I returned, we have done barely anything but.” She bakes a cake. “The worrying thing is that someone might want us to continue this way.”

Even when it comes to hooking up afterwards, Carolyn’s cool. “Hanging onto the same number for today?”

She almost misses that she’s being spoken to, she almost forgets to do more than nod.

“Expect a text with the details” – she eats out a harem of spy princesses – “around lunch.”

Oof.

One moment, please.

All right.

You know who is officially bumped up to next task, in her super professional evacuation to-do list?

### *COCK* / *BLOCK*

“Hello?”

“We have to stop running into each other like that.” Great start. Okay. Here goes. Total sincerity: “It’s not good for both of us.”

A brief handling sound makes way for a lot of echoey concourse noise.

Somewhere in it comes a voice both distant – like, far off – and distant – like, distracted and more forceful for it. The outcome is faint but intelligible, if she concentrates. “…she even get my number off of? Clearly not Niko. Aunty Pam? Who else? Jamie, no, Bear, no, Audrey, nh, Mo, _may…_ ”

“Mm! She is impressive. Excellent phone manner.” She waits a second.

There’s a hiss of “Bastard.”

This warrants a smirk, “Unlike yours.”

Eve’s speech comes through more loudly and wearily. “What, you’ve been cranking Bitter Pill, now? You’re supposed to be busy climbing the corporate ladder.”

“Okay, I don’t know what that _means_ , but for you, I will try and answer. I rang once on Tuesday – like a normal person – to talk to you.”

Dissatisfied with how that leaves things hanging, she drops in a churlish, “About something important,” which it turns out does not help.

“And I was not cranky,” doesn’t either. “Nor wanking. Crying, okay, a little maybe.”

A few heavy breaths churn over the line. She pictures Eve after their kiss, because she imagines that Eve has returned to that moment too, and she aches to watch her expression and for any oncoming blows that might need deflecting, as was the case on that occasion. She’s getting dangerously close to fixating _again_. “Uh-huh?”

“But you’re a big shot as well now, huh, taking long lunches.”

Ooh, that is a clumsy spot to stop. She needs to be bringing more wit and spark to this thing.

“Mm, overnight lunches in Barcelona. Guess we both just missed each other.”

She will have to let her pride and surprise out where Eve will not hear it. Later. Havana.

“Okay, not so great with geography. Audrey said that you would be somewhere near Hampstead. So who was in Hampstead?”

“No-one,” snaps Eve – with give, though, like a rubber band or a spine, to a sudden softness, “Villanelle, where were you? Why did you call me?”

“You are a worry, Eve. Swanning around on company time, when your industry is in its death throes.”

“First of all –” comes a beautifully sour laugh, “The London stops came out of my own pocket. Technically so did Barcelona and Aberdeen, but when I get a moment I’ll arrange a reimbursement coz that was all part of the investigation and god knows I can’t afford it. Second of all – it’s not my industry; I haven’t become a journa… Oh forget it.”

This silence could be awkward, if she let it.

She lets it.

She _lets_ it.

“I was attacked,” she confesses, because not even another fourteen seconds of muffled transit interchange in the middle of an already horrible, clunky conversation turns her off desperately talking Eve closer, “By nostalgia. Call it a moment of weakness. Plus –”

A shivery sigh tickles into her ear. It’s hard not to join in.

“– coach rides are tedious. They say Slovenia has some beautiful countryside, but the motorway really spoilt the views.”

“How about you quit pretending to be sentimental?” Eve suggests, like, quarter-heartedly. “You left Konstantin to die.”

Ouch?!

“I went on ahead – that doesn’t mean I’m not trying to save his life. I will still be here for him when he is discharged. We will meet, and I will get him to… real safety.” She takes a deep breath. “Thank you, by the way. Was it you who called the ambulance?”

“No, someone already had.

“But, I was still there when they came. The paramedics were very kind to him. Even to all the bystanders. Better than I would be.

“Is Konstantin in dange– in more danger than usual? Wait, are _you_ in… ? V, hey. V… Are you… crying? It’s okay. It’s all –”

She sways through the stark speaker rattle of ticket barriers, of passing trains, of _Mind the gap_ s. Although she puts the loud interruptions to good, composure-salvaging use, her voice comes out gummed-up.

“I would really prefer it if you don’t turn up this time. Can you manage that, Eve?”

“Um. I don’t particularly want to? Manage that, I mean.”

“Fine, you know what – me neither. But. Will you?” And it’s less and less of a request, a little bit more of a fear. “Will you stop following me?”

There’s no response, because – right, Eve was transferring to the underground. The _London_ Underground. Iconic, world-class metro system. So naturally the call has cut out. Honestly, what year does TfL think it is?

Oh wait, shit, is that _really_ the year?

Wow, has she been wasting her life. _Definitely_ time for a new one.

* * *

Every time the dissident chick locks eyes with her across the mess hall, Irina’s pulse perks _right_ up.

When Irina finally slips, all sweater-slicked fists over melamine, curls over sly eyes, and way cleared by the reputation preceding her, into the barely-vacated seat beside her fellow juvie legend, Lyuba praises her action for being direct.

And while the admiration feels good, it’s inaccurate. Irina has to explain.

She shivs a left-behind sausage with one end of a spoon-shank, then the other, to clumsy result.

Irina stifles her giggles slightly worse than Lyuba.

 _Ok, confession: I’m a vegetarian because meat is gross, not just for workers’ rights and food security_ , says Lyuba, _but you know, you’re pretty funny._

_Not for animal rights?_

Lyuba props an elbow on the table, tilts her head onto outstretched fingers and lets her eyes meander a full circuit of Irina. _Distant fifth, after deforestation._

 _You’ll get there was a disconnect?_ Irina presumes. _It didn’t seem like killing._

Which was part of the fascination.

It was more like when she decided to reverse park at the aerodrome, and her practically 30-year-old, successful, hot, serial-killer friend she was with was all like _booooring, boo, you wanna go find a hill so you can practise handbrake-starts after this or, I know, maybe we can draw some diagrams and discuss rights-of-way, now that would really get your little nerd heart racing, blah blah blah..._ And Irina bumped their car into a trash can she hadn’t noticed in the shadow of the hangar. Thud. Oops. Grin. Actions have consequences.

They spent the rest of the morning setting up targets and kicking out of donuts at shit, like martial frigging cartists.

Lyuba smirks at Irina’s easy slide into foreign words.

It all followed that same, assured build-up of language study: observe the possibilities, refine the moves. Then up and possess the construct some dumb society prepared earlier, swerve it someplace unique, using just the slightest effort.

Intricate mechanisms, brute consequence. Fucking fascinating. Irina parts her jaws in contemplation. She waves a stub of sausage in and out, without closing her mouth onto it, then rubs it in some dubious condiment and flings it in a high arc across the room.

 _Ew, what the hell?_ someone cries a moment later, _Sofia, those birds are back in here, did you see?! I just got shat on._

Fascinating.

And contrarily, just like her hockey coach didn’t need to understand Sanskrit to make the right kind of face at getting told to _piss up your nose_... not the face she expected, but one even better for its newness, to absorb and file for later reference...

 _You said that to someone? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard_ , Lyuba gushes, _I’m stealing it._

Irina spits at her coarsely in Icelandic, purging a vulnerable truth in disguise.

The quirk of her face makes Irina’s stomach sink with the notion Lyuba knows the words, momentarily. _And what does that mean?_

 _Wouldn’t you like to know._ Anyway... Her mum’s boyfriend didn’t need time to fully grasp he’d been nuzzled by one of his lusty luxury hatches to start with the dying.

There wasn’t much sense of violence, only detached consequence. Butterfly-effect shit.

Because it’s the same with ecocide, right?

Nothing else has seemed like killing either. To start the ignition, to lean on the pedal, or to sit by in the passenger seat every day while someone else did, to endure this _really, really_ nice dweeb, to toss out his oil-money sandwiches still in their literal oil plastic wrapping, to dick around on the teen fringes of an economy where industry made the greater impact than individual choice. Yet, _you and I both know_ , the permafrost is collapsing, the country’s doomed to be all steamy sinkhole, microbead soup swallowing the globe, eighty percent of the planet uninhabitable in like two seconds, millions dead, soon enough billions, and all those little effortless motions _still contributed_. Are _still contributing_.

 _Evil thrives on mundanity_ , says Lyuba.

Irina rolls her eyes. _What_ made running one guy over different?

 _Yes, fas-cin-a-ting._ Lyuba starts on about opening space for corporate regime-change. Irina keeps on about killer-qualia.

 _If I’d gone back over and crushed him flat enough_ , she wonders aloud, _do you think it would have started to feel different? Serious? Real?_ Would there have been a tell, outside of her dad’s reaction?

### AORTIC STENOSIS

It’s Lyuba who notices the disruption first and stiffens.

Irina’s mum stomps in, peppery psych striding close behind.

 _Hey, you’re busting me out?_ Irina jokes without mirth. _Dad will be bummed._

But it turns out, that yes. She is. In a clunky, bureaucratic way. All the way to Edinburgh. This weekend. Compassionate grounds.

_Your father has suffered a heart attack._

_We will be flying out to see him off._

_In the meantime, we can put you in touch, once he wakes up._

_If he lives to wake up._

Gee, at least the grounds have compassion.

 _Don’t worry. My dad is too shouty to die._ A diaphragm like that cannot give up so easily. He’s a fighter. Not in a plucky, cutesy way. In an argumentative, arsehole way. Death? Come on, when did Dad ever commit to anything? _I’m kidding, let’s leave already. Hurry up, HURRY UP!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fundamentally, this fic responds to episodes 1-5 of the third series, with no moves to accommodate the remaining chunk. (Apparently Team Heathcote and I just share more creative instincts than I had realised—eg telly’s more interesting pretending it’s theatre, titlecard privileges are best steadily abused to extremis, whodunnit-and-what may be left as an optional exercise to subsequent writers, and faaar too much wrt resolving what the first half of the series set up. I feel somewhat uncomfy and unoriginal as a result!)
> 
> Howeverrrrr
> 
> As the remainder of the season came out, I bunged in those few inconsequential anchors (the “We have to stop running into each other…” line, the scotlandness of Konsti's collapse*, and Cuba). But! You’ll notice I also indulged two much bigger ones: the Romanian hit** and episode-six-or-so Irina.
> 
> Oh, Irina. I’d written a perfectly acceptable Irina in the final two chapters. Then the show had her do that thing. I had a hard time reconciling what we've otherwise been shown of this character with her physical attack on what’s-his-face. It seemed so dissatisfyingly arrived at—and my story otherwise so nearly aligned to the canon—that it’d’ve troubled me to not take on the challenge of embracing the moment in earnest. I rewrote my Irina; gave her this scene of her own***. Did it work, I dunno, what do you reckon?
> 
> * I don’t recognise Scottish railway stations by sight, but I’m assuming the platform heart attack scene was set in one of the larger hubs to the south. How the heck Eve reliably trailed Konstantin and Villanelle there from Aberdeen without already sharing a carriage or otherwise bumping into them I dooo nooot know. Intuition? Knowledge of reasons they needed to pop down into england as opposed to say, stepping onto a ferry? Had already given up and was simply heading back home herself? None of these feel quite convincing? Credit card used to buy tickets out of the north-east? Never mind, disregard this footnote; I guess that (plus a dash of the usual freak timing luck) works.  
> ** Like, sure, I’d written around a majorly stuffed-up assassination having occurred at the same point, because duh since the spice shop (and bless that pro(/de?)gression, so affectingly done), but I certainly hadn’t anticipated the details, and it was refreshing to lose some of ~the vague~!  
> *** Aside: This being the only passage presented ~in translation~****, it was weirdly tricky to avoid slipping into feeding her conspicuously unlikely vernacular. I like to think that I failed enough you might pick it. See also: recurring internal debate over whether this is more of an “ass” or an “arse” moment for _x_ person.  
> **** General rule having been that every third-person POV assumed must have cause (from the protag’s perspective) to appear in the language used; Pyotr’s been preparing in his head, Bor’ka’s trying to chuck an Oksana, Villanelle of course pulled the original, and the others are (presumed) native speakers. Whereas English is old hat for Irina, so I imagine she’d be more inclined to ruminate in Russian or whatever is flavour of the month.


End file.
